New Books for Review

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Tom Stacey is an English author of the fantasy novel, Exile. Tom was born in Essex, England, and
has lived there his whole life. He began writing at school, often taking
responsibility for penning the class plays, or writing sketches with his
friends. While attending university to read history, Tom developed his writing
by creating several short stories, some of which would later become to basis
for his debut novel, Exile.

Tom self-published Exile
in summer 2014 and is currently working on the sequel as well as another
unrelated novel. He earns a living as a video producer in London in
the day and writes at night, a bit like a really underwhelming superhero.

On the
fringes of the Verian Empire, two small boys stumble upon a strange altar,
buried in the heart of a mountain. There they awaken a horror unseen for
generations, that will descend upon the realm of men while it is at its
weakest. For Veria is a nation at war with itself, only recently recovered from
a bloody rebellion, and the time of heroes has passed. The empire is in a state
of chaos, and while its ruler, the Empron Illis, rids the land of his remaining
enemies, unseen forces are gathering at the borders. However all eyes are
turned inwards. The Empron is not a well man, and there are whispers among the
common folk that his advisors are spies; demons that only wear the flesh of men.

Yet
there is hope...

In the
distant mountains, a forester who has buried his past learns that he has not
been forgotten, and that his crimes have sought him out at last. But he is no
simple woodsman. He is Beccorban the Helhammer, Scourge, Burner and the Death
of Nations, and his fury is a terrible thing.

For when
all the heroes are gone, Veria will turn to those it has forgotten, before all
is lost.

For More Information

Thanks for joining us at the
book club today, Tom! I’d like to start out by asking you about your
earliest stab at writing?

Tom: When I was at primary school
(elementary school), our teacher set us a creative writing task called ‘The
Quest,’ where we had to get a character through a series of trials in order to
reach a Holy Grail type object. It was my first real piece of creative writing
and I loved it. My poor character had to face such wonders as a corridor of
spinning blades, an acid lake, and a dark and twisting labyrinth, complete with
Thesean monster. I wish I still had it but it’s either buried beneath mountains
of schoolwork in a dusty cupboard somewhere or it has long since turned to
mulch. Probably for the best since my handwriting would have been awful!

You work as a video producer in London. I know that must be an exciting
job! Tell us about it?

Tom: I get this question a lot when
I meet new people and I can tell you that unfortunately it’s not as glamorous
as it sounds. I work largely in corporate video, so most of the time I am
simply overseeing a one camera interview with a CEO talking about financial
reports and the like. Surprisingly, a lot of the executives I film can be very
nervous in front of a camera!

Every now and then something more
exciting does come up. For example last year I was asked to help promote the TV
series Vikings. We gathered a group of about twenty Viking reenactors and a
150ft wooden longship on a trailer and spent the day causing havoc in London. That was a lot of fun, especially when we
had to be out on the Thames at 6am filming the ‘invasion.’ If you want to see
the final result, you can see it here: http://youtu.be/VuYlB3YsfPI

That’s the kind of thing that makes
it more than a desk job. It also makes you fall in love with the city, since
although we didn't have any permits, people just looked on in wonder or wanted
to pose for photos. London is a magical place sometimes and it is a
privilege to work there.

How did you get into epic
fantasy?

Tom: When I was about 8, my teacher
put a drawing of a wizened little creature in a reed boat up on the projector.
It had a passage describing him and I was mesmerised. The creature turned out
to be Gollum, and the descriptive passage was the first time he is mentioned in
Riddles in the Dark, a chapter of The Hobbit. My teacher told me
that she knew I would like the book and so I asked my mum to get me a copy of
it. I went on to read The Lord of the Rings and then anything else I
could find. A few years later, I discovered Hero in the Shadows by David
Gemmell. It turned out to be the third part of the Waylander series so I
went back and read the others and I was hooked. David Gemmell has been my
favourite author from that point onwards, and is arguably my biggest influence
as a writer.

As for what got me into writing
fantasy, I had always told myself I would write a book, and knew that it would
probably be a fantasy book when it came. I wrote a short story when I was at
university called The Soldier. This eventually became the first chapter
of one of the characters in Exile and the rest sort of fell into place.

I love the premise of your new
book, Exile. Tell us about this altar that two small boys find which sets
the scene for the beginning of your book?

Tom: I don’t want to give too much
away about the altar itself, but I can tell you that it is something of great
power. It is commonly known as a 'bloodforge' and is something that modern
Verians have not been exposed to, in the same way that in our world we have
ancient religions and cultures that we know very little about. The characters
will discover more and more towards the end of the book and in the sequel
(which I am currently writing).

Who is Veria?

Tom: Veria is actually a place. It
is the chief nation in the continent of Daegermund and, at the time when
Exile is set, is the seat of a powerful empire. Its ruler is the Empron, a
man named Illis.

Who is your favorite character
in your book?

Tom: That is a difficult one. It’s
sort of like asking me to choose my favourite kidney! They all have things I
like about them. Beccorban is a love letter to some of my favourite characters
from books I have read. However, I like to think that he is more troubled. He
has done some very bad things in his life. Loster thinks he is weak but he’s
got a lot of courage inside of him, and that is something I think we all can
identify with. Callistan is a bit of a man removed. It’s difficult to get
inside his mind as he doesn’t really know who he is past a name and a title.
Riella has a special place for me. I never really intended her to have too much
to say, perhaps because I was nervous about being able to write a woman well.
She quickly became someone I really respected. I will say, the oddest thing
about writing a book — as I’m sure anyone who ever has can agree with — is that
your characters quickly become friends. In my more absent-minded moments, I find
myself wondering how Beccorban is getting on, or what Callistan is up to. It’s
a strange thing, I’ll admit, but sometimes it can be really rewarding to live
in your own head.

Who would be the character most
people would love to hate?

Tom: I would be interested for the
readers to tell me, though I think it will be Droswain. Droswain is someone you
meet later in the book but he always makes my skin crawl.

Will there be more epic
fantasies for you in the future?

Tom: Absolutely. I am already
writing the sequel for Exile and I have a big notebook full of future
stories. There are lots of fantasy ideas in there but also a sci-fi series, a
historical fiction book, a historical fiction saga, a robinsonade that I have
already begun, a truckload of short stories, and some screenplays. Just need to
find the time to write them!

Saturday, November 29, 2014

Too Late to Run is the third book in a series
of gritty mystery novels starring Boston photojournalist Mara
Cunningham. This time, Mara reluctantly aids a crooked real estate developer
from her past who's been detained on trumped-up charges. But each clue she
uncovers turns up more enemies - backwoods militias, corrupt bankers, and a
mysterious pyromaniac - and raises doubts as to her friend's innocence.

Book Excerpt:

When the feds came for Mickey Scanlon, they
came hard: guns out, blue windbreakers with big yellow letters, “ON THE GROUND,
ON THE GROUND NOW.” They shouldered their way through the lobby of Greenfield
Development Associates, the largest of Scanlon's several fronts, just after twelve noon. The receptionist, a twenty-two-year-old intern chosen for her cup size,
had the sense to hit the panic button beneath her desk before an agent whipped
around the counter and cuffed her. The cuffs were too tight, she whined.

Mickey Scanlon—just past fifty, tan as a
baseball glove—saw the pulsing light in the alarm panel above his office door:
three quick strobes, pause, another three. He reacted with accomplished haste,
executing perfectly a routine he had only drilled once. Standing, he tugged his
laptop free of its docking and dropped it into the bottom drawer of his desk.
It adhered to the inside of the drawer with a dull thump. Leaving the drawer
open, he crossed to two small filing cabinets opposite his desk. A black metal
box sat atop each one. He pulled the tab on the first, waited for the hiss he'd
been warned to expect, then did the same for the other. All this in less than
ten seconds.

Scanlon had his cell phone out when the agents
kicked in the door. They dropped him on his stomach, cuffed his hands behind
his back, patted him down for weapons, then hoisted him to his feet. They
marched him out of his office, ignoring the smoke coming out of his filing
cabinet and his remarkably bare desk. They walked him past a dozen witnesses:
some inside associates, aware of the full extent of his real estate rackets;
some innocent employees, tenuously aware of Scanlon's two previous arrests. An
SUV with tinted windows waited in the parking lot, surrounded by armored
vehicles and men with dogs.

They pushed him into the back seat of the SUV,
keeping his head free of the roof by yanking on his suit collar. He turned to
say something to the offending agent. The words were lost in the chaos, but the
look in Scanlon's eyes was obvious: too wide and hesitant to match the bluster
in his voice. The agent slammed the door and the SUV drove off.

I knew none of this at the time; I wasn't
there. I had to piece together details from multiple sources hours after the
fact. At the time I was at a corner table in the window lounge of Top of the
Hub, fifty stories above the Back Bay, trying to swallow my pounding heart.

Across from me sat Jeremy Brandt, a man from
whom Mickey Scanlon might have learned about roguish charm. Brandt wore his
silver hair and blue eyes like honors from the Queen. He had on a navy blazer
over a tight T-shirt and chinos. He was sifting through a large leather
portfolio with one hand, flicking by glossy blowups of the best photographs I'd
taken over the last six years. I took another sip of ice water, wondering if I
might swap out for something stronger.

Jeremy Brandt made headlines two years ago
when he quit ControlCenter at CNN. Four months later, he surfaced as the owner of Flashpoint, a
high-volume news blog. Most of America knew
Flashpoint for its list articles and eye-catching photos. “Seven Things You
Never Knew About the Human Brain”; “Eighteen Extreme Sports Stunts You Won't
Believe Are Real”; and so forth. But the blog's ad revenue also financed a
small but dedicated team of freelance journalists. Brandt poached hip young
voices and distinguished veterans from The Atlantic, The Los Angeles Times, and
elsewhere, trying to do with a staff of twelve what the media had fumbled with
for the last twenty years: break meaningful stories to a mass audience.

And here he was, looking through my photos,
hence my pulse pounding in my throat. Well, that and our occasional eye contact
across the top of my portfolio. I'd told myself that morning, as I zipped up my
pantsuit, that most of Brandt's legendary looks came from makeup artistry and
TV magic. I hadn't been prepared for how good he'd look in a casual outfit. Or
how good his voice would sound when it was pitched low enough for just the two
of us. Or how good he'd smell.

Easy there, Mara.

Brandt closed the portfolio carefully, as if
shutting the door on a sleeping child's room, and rested the binding on the
edge of the table. He drummed the fingers of his left hand (no ring) on the
leather and pursed his lips.

"These are good," he said.

I nodded, deflating into my comfortable
Chiavari chair and resting my hand against my ice water. I could see it in the
way he held his breath at the end of the sentence. Better luck next time.
Thanks but no thanks.

"This isn't what I had in mind,
though," he said.

I nodded again, tucking my hair behind my
ears. "I tried to select as broad a variety as possible to showcase my
range. But I've mostly been doing crime scene photography for the Tribune for
the last four years. I do believe most of those skills would translate into any
other field, so I'd …"

He smiled, letting me speak. I could see he
wanted to say something but was too polite to interrupt, so I trailed off and
let him jump in.

I looked away, my face warm. Of course he did.
Brandt came up as a war correspondent in the Persian Gulf and Kosovo. He wouldn't
need a freelancer from Boston who'd snapped a few car crashes. Realizing that, however, left me more
confused than embarrassed.

He saw my brows knit and continued, both hands
up. "This was my fault. I must not have been very clear in my first email.
Of course this is what you'd think I meant."

The room seemed to grow still. I drew my hand
off the table and clasped it in my lap, hoping he wouldn't see me shaking.

The waiter chose that moment to reappear.
"Another of those, sir?" He gave a short bow toward Brandt's empty
beer glass in that way waiters have.

Brandt nodded. "And you, ma'am?"

I found my voice somehow. "Manhattan."

"Any preference for your whiskey?"

"Yes. No. I don't care. Whatever you …
you know."

The waiter gave another short bow, as if he
received these orders every day, and sidled off, leaving me alone with Jeremy
Brandt's gentle grin. "Not the answer you were expecting?" he asked.

"Not hardly," I said. I had covered
the State House beat for the Boston Tribune up until five years ago, when I'd
pulled a stunt that the paper had threatened to fire me over. The union and the
owners had reached a compromise: I could keep working for the paper, but I
would never write another word. Gary, the metro desk editor, had kept me on as
a photographer. But the work had been drying up over the last four years: more
freelancers, fewer pages per issue, less money to go around. All of which led
to this midday interview with Jeremy Brandt.

But no, not the sort of interview I'd been
expecting at all. "I hate to talk you out of your brilliant idea," I
said, "but you know I haven't written for the Tribune for some time."

He nodded. "And I heard about why. That's
what inspired me to take a look at you. I need writers with that sort of
initiative. Writers with the stones to point out the obvious, no matter who it
might embarrass."

"I didn't realize the story had traveled
that far." I felt the blush flowing down to my collarbone again. The
encouragement in Brandt's eyes didn't help any.

"I heard it from Saul Kirkadian,
actually." My mentor at the Tribune, he'd left last August after more than
forty years on the beat. "In full disclosure, he was my first choice. But
he gave me your name instead and told me why I should give you a look. I trust
his judgment."

"And I trust yours."

My Manhattan arrived on a literal
silver platter, next to Brandt's beer. We took our drinks and toasted. Every
moment of eye contact between us ended in mutual smiles, as if we were in on
some private joke.

"I'm recruiting feature writers in all
the big metros," he said. "Boston, Atlanta, LA, Chicago. People with experience
and a viewpoint, not just content mills."

"So you're not looking for 'Twenty
Reasons Boston is Better Than New York'?"

"There aren't any." He grinned.
"But no, I want feature copy. The sort of articles you'd write for the
Tribune, if you had your way. And more of them too. Ours is still a high-volume
business."

"You'll get them."

"Good. The hours might get crazy."

"That's fine." I kept nodding, then
checked my head. My hours didn't entirely belong to me; the class I taught in Cambridge at Sandy's self-defense school
was another obligation. "There are a couple of evenings—"

Brandt held a hand up. "You set your own
schedule. So long as copy gets to the editors on time, I don't care what else
you do."

Another moment of lingering eye contact.
"I don't think either of us would last very long with a morals
clause."

I lowered my eyes to my drink and stomped on
the brakes in my head. Pleasant enough to dwell on what Brandt was doing to my
imagination—and what he might do to other parts of me—but that was as far as it
could go. This man was, potentially, my future boss. I'd screwed my life up in
the past by going after the wrong older man.

My cell phone vibrated in my purse, trembling
against my leg. I kicked it aside. Whoever it was could wait.

The check came; Brandt paid it. We stood,
gathered our things, and went for the exit. I overheard murmurs and saw a few
heads snap up as we passed: is that? Do you think? And who's she? I smirked at
the notion of appearing in the celebrity pages, before remembering I didn't
want anyone knowing about my job hunt. Shit. Hopefully no one recognized me.

"Do you have a writing portfolio?"
Brandt asked as we reached the street.

"Absolutely."

"Send it to me, and we'll do this once
more."

We set a follow-up for the day after next. As
a metro photographer, I was notionally on call throughout my entire shift. In
practice, the Tribune needed me less and less every day. I could spare the time
for another date with a silver fox. Interview, Mara. Not a date, an interview.

"I'll see you then." We shook hands,
his fingers warm against my palm. Then I jogged to where I'd parked my car,
heels clacking on the pavement.

While the maverick captain of new media had
been flattering me over drinks, I'd missed one text and one call. I didn't
recognize the phone number on the call, so I left it alone. The text was from Gary, an assignment he wanted
me to cover. Three-alarm fire, Vassall Street in Quincy.

And like that, the pleasant flush of the
afternoon vanished. My brain queued up a list of items to consider: traffic at
this time of day,crowds gawking at the
fire, who I knew among SouthShore first responders.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Cold Creek is a place with a dark history, especially for
the Lockwoods. Now adults, the three Lockwood sisters are still recovering from
the events that led to the destruction of their family when they were children.
Determined to move forward, Tess and Kate are making fresh starts, ready to put
bad—even deadly—memories to rest and settle happily in the small but booming
town. And they're hoping their older sister, Charlene, can do the same.

Char is back in town seeking comfort as she figures out
her next move. A social worker used to difficult situations, she soon runs
afoul of some locals who think she's sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.
She's certain something sinister is being covered up, and when she witnesses
Matt Rowan being run off the road, she knows she's right.

Working together, Matt and Char figure uncovering the
truth will be dangerous, but living in Cold Creek won't be safe for any of them
until its secrets are revealed.

Book Excerpt:

As she made the next sharp
turn, Char gasped. A white truck with Lake Azure, Inc. painted on its side was
tipped nearly off the cliff, right where the school bus stopped for the kids
who lived above. She’d heard a horn honk long and loud a few minutes earlier.
Maybe the truck missed the last turn and spun out, since its rear, not its
front, was dangling over the edge, propped up by two trees. No other vehicle
was nearby to help.

She put her emergency
blinkers on and pulled as close to the cliff face as she could. She jumped down
from her truck and ran across the road toward the truck. A man was inside!

“What should I do?” she
shouted, her voice shrill. It sounded like a stupid question. She had to get
the man out of his truck before it crashed over the edge.

The bitter, strong wind
ripped at her hair and jacket. What if a blast of air tipped him off? Or maybe
even if he moved. She’d swear the two tree trunks that held his truck were
shaking as hard as she was.

She could hear the engine
was still running. The driver opened an automatic window.

“A guy in a truck shoved me
off,” he shouted. “Meant to. I don’t have any traction. I’m afraid if I shift
my weight or open a door to jump out, I’ll send it over.”

The fact someone had done
this on purpose stunned her. What was going on? If her cell phone worked up here,
she’d call her brother-in-law, the county sheriff, for help, but she was on her
own. It wouldn’t help to go back up for help from Elinor and Penny.

“Don’t move until I get
something you can hang on to if the truck goes. I have some jump ropes I can tie
together. Those trees are shaky.”

“I’m shaky. Hurry!”

She ran to her truck and
knotted together the three jump ropes she had, tying square knots because she
knew they would hold. But she’d never be able to balance the man’s weight if
the truck went over the edge.

“I’ve got ropes here, but
I’ll have to tie the end to a tree. I don’t dare drive close enough to you to
tie it to my truck. It would never stretch that far.”

She knotted it around the
trunk of a pine tree that looked sturdy enough, though that almost took the
length of one rope. This wasn’t going to work.

A grinding sound, then a
crunch reverberated as the truck seemed to jerk once then settled closer to the
cliff edge.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

For Independent Author Debra Mares, violence
against women is not only a topic in today's news, it's a topic in
her crime novels, cases she handled as a county prosecutor, and now it will be
the topic in her first children's book It's This Monkey's Business.
Debra is a veteran
county prosecutor in Riverside
currently specializing in community prosecution, juvenile delinquency and
truancy. Her office has one of the highest conviction rates in California and
is the fifteenth largest in the country. You name it - she's prosecuted it
- homicides, gang murders, domestic violence, sex cases, political corruption,
major fraud and parole hearings for convicted murderers. She is a two-time
recipient of the CountyProsecutor of
the Year Award and 2012 recipient of the Community Hero Award.

Debra is the granddaughter of a Mexican migrant farm worker
and factory seamstress, was born and raised in Los Angeles, was the first to
graduate college in my family, and grew up dancing Ballet Folklorico and Salsa.
Her own family story includes struggles with immigration, domestic violence,
mental health, substance abuse and teen pregnancy, which she addresses in her
novels. She followed a calling at 11 years old to be an attorney and voice for
women, and appreciates international travel and culture. Her life's mission is
to break the cycle of victimization and domestic violence.

Debra is also the co-founding Executive Director of Women Wonder Writers, a
501(c)(3) nonprofit organization implementing creative intervention and
mentoring programs for at-risk youth. In 2012, Debra self-published
Volume 1 of her debut legal thriller series, The Mamacita Murders featuring
Gaby Ruiz, a sex crimes prosecutor haunted by her mother's death at the hands
of an abusive boyfriend. In 2013, Debra released her second crime novel, The Suburban Seduccion, featuring
"The White Picket Fence" killer Lloyd Gil, who unleashes his neonatal
domestic violence-related trauma on young women around his neighborhood.

To bring to life "Cabana," Debra partnered
with 16-year-old Creative Director Olivia Garcia and Los Angeles based
professional illustrator Taylor Christensen.

16-year-old Creative Director Olivia Garcia attends high
school in Panorama City, California, is
the Los Angeles
youth delegate for the Anti-Defamation League's National Youth Leadership
Mission in WashingtonD.C., an
ASB member and AP student and enjoys reading, crafting and knitting.

Taylor Christensen is
a Los Angeles-based illustrator holding a BFA from OtisCollege of
Art & Design, focuses on fantastical creatures and surreal imagery, and
produces artwork for illustration, character and concept design.

"Cabana," a young spider monkey is brought to life to
tell her story It's This Monkey's Business to help children
who are affected by domestic violence and divorce. Cabana, who lives with her
parents in a treehouse high up in a rainforest canopy, becomes startled one day
from her Mama's scream, when she is waiting atop a tree branch for her Papa to
teach her how to swing. After falling to the forest floor, Cabana frustrated
from her parents' fighting, decides she will search for a new family to be part
of. Her persistence is cut short when she braves the river to play with a pink
dolphin, unaware she cannot swim. The tragedy brings her parents together to
realize they can no longer live together. Cabana reconnects with her Papa,
realizing he is the only one that can teach her how to swing.

It's This Monkey's
Business is an
approximately 756 word children's book targeting ages 4-8, which is set in a
rainforest and featuring "Cabana," a young female Spider Monkey, her
parents and rainforest animals. The book is approximately 30 pages long and
features full spread color illustrations.

For More Information

Welcome to the book club, Debra! Can we begin by having
you tell us how you started writing children’s books?

Debra: Initially, writing a children’s book seemed to come out
of the blue. It was around Christmastime, a couple months after promoting the
release of my last legal thriller, that I started to develop It’s This Monkey’s
Business.In an effort to move past what
was starting to look like writer’s block, I just went with it and started
development.Not quite knowing where to
start, I began plotting the story and then researching about children’s books.

It was the first book in this genre for me, but I believe the best
way for a writer to grow professionally, is to explore and write in different
genres. I heard legal thriller author Lawrence Block say that at a writer’s
conference I attended; and it has always stuck with me.

Unsurprisingly, the writing progressed into a narrativepoetry style with rhyming couplets.I had written poetry in the past couple
years, mostly alongside troubled youth, to help express the ineffable and
things that had happened to us or that we saw as children.Writing It’s This Monkey’s Business was as
therapeutic as it was difficult insofar it took me back to childhood where I
witnessed domestic violence myself.The
storyline was fun to develop, but getting the narrative poetry sharpened up and
perfected was professionally challenging.I learned the meaningfulness of editing, reediting, and editing again
with the help of my friend, award-winning poet and author Kate Buckley.

Children’s books rely heavily on finding just the right
illustrator. How did you find yours?

Debra:Illustrator Taylor
Christensen came recommended by my friend who works in the movie industry
designing and printing movie posters.My
friend was watching my efforts to tackle the issue of domestic violence and
knowing I’m an independent author, he offered to help with the book printing
and recommended one of his favorite young illustrators to help.Taylor is
young, brilliant, and has a good reputation in the industry for working
efficiently.Meeting deadlines were
important to me since we were on a strict timeline with a goal to publish in
October, domestic violence awareness month.Taylor’s
previous experience primarily focused on illustrations for animation, but he
was looking to expand his portfolio to include book illustrations. He already
had a love for drawing animals, he felt making characters of them would be a
real treat, and he was open-minded about working under the direction of my
16-year-old niece Olivia. Once he read the story, he was very enthusiastic
about creating illustrations that would appeal to children and support a story
with a strong message.It was a perfect
fit.

Tell us more about your book. The message involves
domestic violence and divorce, right?

Debra:That is
correct.This book is not only for
children ages 4-8 affected by domestic violence, but all kids.It’s important for kids going through this to
feel supported, know they’re not alone and can still thrive.Part of breaking the cycle is also helping
kids build empathy and understand how it feels for a child to go through this.It’s important for children to also know that
abuse is never okay and to tell someone if they think it’s going on.

Can you tell us more about your adorable character, Cabana?

Debra:Cabana is a 2-year
old juvenile spider monkey, which is equivalent to 5-7 years old in human
years.She lives high in the rainforest
canopy, mostly in the tree tops, and rarely ever sees the forest floor. She
lives on fruit and nuts.Cabana
resembles a human baby and is still at the age where she’s riding on her mama’s
back.Once she learns to swing like the
older spider monkeys, Cabana will be able to swing through the rainforest
canopy and hang suspended by her tail.Cabana is purple in color, which is also the domestic violence awareness
color, and has a vibrant pink flower tucked behind her right ear.

What do you want children to come away with after reading your
book?

Debra:For children of
domestic violence, I’d like them to come away feeling as though they are not
alone, knowing it is not their fault, knowing they can tell someone, empowered
to talk about it, and understanding abuse is not right.I’d also like their feelings of fear and
lonliness to be acknowledged and know they can still thrive even if their
family goes through this.

For all kids who read the book, I’d like them to come away with
empathy for a child or family going through this.Being able to put themselves in the shoes of
another youngster who is experiencing violence at home can be powerful, so
others can be supportive, tell someone if they suspect it’s going on, and be
nice to the youngster instead of blaming them, gossiping about them or bullying
them.

What’s next for you?

Debra:I’m working on
publishing Your L!fe: Young Voices from The Write of Your L!fe, a youth poetry
anthology containing writings from the students who have participated in Women
Wonder Writers’ programs, the mentoring nonprofit I co-founded in 2011.It’s due out Spring 2015.After that, I expect to return to writing the
sequel of The Mamacita Murders, a legal thriller series featuring latina
prosecutor Gaby Ruiz.Cabana will return
shortly after that!Then again, as I
mentioned before, I usually go with what inspires me to write... so time will
tell!Thank you so much for the
opportunity to chat about my book and I hope to talk again soon!

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

On the
fringes of the Verian Empire, two small boys stumble upon a strange altar,
buried in the heart of a mountain. There they awaken a horror unseen for
generations, that will descend upon the realm of men while it is at its
weakest. For Veria is a nation at war with itself, only recently recovered from
a bloody rebellion, and the time of heroes has passed. The empire is in a state
of chaos, and while its ruler, the Empron Illis, rids the land of his remaining
enemies, unseen forces are gathering at the borders. However all eyes are
turned inwards. The Empron is not a well man, and there are whispers among the
common folk that his advisors are spies; demons that only wear the flesh of
men.

Yet
there is hope...

In the
distant mountains, a forester who has buried his past learns that he has not
been forgotten, and that his crimes have sought him out at last. But he is no
simple woodsman. He is Beccorban the Helhammer, Scourge, Burner and the Death
of Nations, and his fury is a terrible thing.

For when
all the heroes are gone, Veria will turn to those it has forgotten, before all
is lost.

Book Excerpt:

“Slow down, Loster! You’re climbing too fast!” Barde’s reedy voice
carried up to the small boy as he dug his toe into a narrow crevice, skinning
the top of his foot. Loster was a confident climber but he had never been this
far up, despite having lived in the shadow of the Widowpeak all of his eleven
years.

“Los!” The rest of Barde’s protest was lost to the wind, bouncing off of
the pitiless rock face and tumbling backwards into the howling elemental
maelstrom that plucked at Loster’s clothing. His fine tunic of dark blue satin
was ripped at the hip and his leggings bore enough stains and small tears to
render them rags.

None of that mattered now.

This far from the ground the Great Hall of his father was a god’s
dollhouse. If he’d had the courage to look down, Los would have been able to
blot it out with only his thumb.

“Mother is going to beat us if we’re home late again.” Barde hauled
himself up until he was just beneath his brother. As the elder by several
years, his arms were stronger, but he was also heavier and therefore less
nimble. “If we start back down now we might be able to make it.” He did not
need to mention what their father would do.

Loster ignored the hopeful tone. “Just a little bit further, then we can
start back.” He grinned to himself. “Of course if you’re scared…”

“I’m not! You’re the baby here.” Barde clambered up alongside Loster.
“Come on, let’s keep going.” As he moved off, Loster couldn’t help but grin.
Nevertheless he caught the hastily concealed edge of fear in his older
brother’s voice – it pierced his sense of calm like a broken bone. There were
other signs too: the telltale tremble of his legs and arms, the whiteness of
his knuckles as his fingers gripped handholds with the strength of a drowning
man. Loster frowned. Maybe he was pushing too hard. His brother was only here
to look after him anyway. He didn’t share Loster’s interest in exploration
unless it involved exploring some of the prettier girls in the village. The
small climber suddenly realised how selfish and childish he was being. What if he
got Barde killed?

“Hey, I think I found a ledge,” Barde grunted and disappeared from sight
only to reappear headfirst a moment later. “Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”

Loster smiled. Mother could wait.

He wedged his boot into a nook, scuffing the soft leather and gripping
his brother’s clammy hand. Barde heaved and dragged him up over the lip of the
ledge, further ripping his fine clothing. But he did not care. Up here he was
untouchable, far away from his mother’s scolding and his father’s hard stares and
harder hands. Loster glanced sidelong at his brother. Barde was much bigger
than him: broad in the shoulders, long in the limbs. He was the confident one,
calm in the knowledge that his father’s status as Lord of Elk was enough to
shield him from most of the evils that the world had to offer, even if it could
not shield him from his father. Yet now Barde sat clutching his legs to his
chest, well away from the edge. To Loster it seemed that his brother had shrunk
in stature.

He stood and walked along the edge as if it were a line on the ground.
He had seen a few of the travelling troupes perform a similar feat with a
length of rope and two tall wooden beams. The act had spectators cooing and
screaming with fear whenever one of the high walkers feigned imbalance. Loster
wondered what reaction his high walk would get – surely nobody could boast
about having performed at such a height?

He stepped back onto stable ground and sat next to Barde. Barde was
breathing deeply and looking at the ruin of his boots. It had taken courage to
follow him up this high and Loster respected that. Indeed he was not exactly
fearless himself. If anything he saw himself as the victim of a self-imposed
pressure. Whenever an opportunity arose to do something that others would call
daring or dangerous, Loster’s head filled with a hushed but insistent voice,
urging him on. The voice had been with him for as long as he could remember and
the only way to quiet it – the only way to find peace – was to give in. He
wasn’t brave or even reckless. He was the opposite. He was weak.

“Do you think we’re the first people to climb this high?” Barde asked,
his eyes scanning a horizon limned in cloud.

“I don’t know,” said Loster. “We’re probably not as far up as we think
we are.” He craned his neck to view the rest of the mountain that towered into
the heavens.

Barde blew the air from his lungs noisily. “It’s far enough for me. Jaym
said I should know my limits and this is mine.” Loster rolled his eyes. Barde
had begun lessons with the family’s weapons master three weeks earlier on his
fourteenth birthday. He was still in awe of the grizzled old bastard and often
quoted him, no matter how banal or ridiculous the statement.

Loster looked around their perch. A few loose stones, just enough room
for a grown man to lie down without his feet dangling over the abyss. He walked
up to the smooth stone wall and pressed his hands against it. It was cool
despite the sun beating down — even that brightest of torches could not warm
the Widowpeak. He made to turn around and stopped. A groove ran down the centre
of the rock face, about a finger’s width across, disappearing into the floor
between his feet.

“Barde, come look at this.” Loster ran a hand down the groove, freeing
dust and dirt. Barde appeared at his side, lips parted slightly.

“What is it?” he said.

“I don’t know but we could pry it open. Give me your dirk.” Barde took a
quick step back and clutched at the prized dagger tucked in his belt. As a man
of fighting age, he had been gifted it by none other than his father, albeit
grudgingly. It was a lovely thing with a jewelled hilt and a blade of steel so
bright that it shone blue.

“No it’s mine. Father said I must look after it.” The older boy turned
his body away from Loster to forestall any attempts at snatching the dirk from
its oiled sheath, though Loster suspected that it was also so that he wouldn’t
see Barde’s fear. Lord Malix’s rage was a dreadful thing. Almost as bad as his
affection.

Loster held out his hands. “Oh come on, it’s a knife. You butter your bread
with one.”

“That’s not the point. This is a proper knife, used for fighting Veria’s
enemies. Not spreading butter.” He scowled. “You’re just jealous.”

Loster’s hands dropped to his side. He stifled a grin as an idea leapt
to mind. “What if this leads to the tomb of some great king?” He waved a hand
at the seam in the rock.

“Up here? Not likely,” scoffed Barde.

“Why not? Aifayne said that there used to be a great city on this
mountain. That’s what the ruins at Stackstone are all about.”

“That old dustfart?” Barde snorted, yet nevertheless elbowed past his
brother. He ran a finger down the gap in the rock face and turned back to
Loster. “Give me your tunic.”

“Huh?”

“If there is treasure inside then we have to go and claim it, but I’m
not damaging my knife. In case there’s a dragon.”

“A dragon?” Loster raised an eyebrow.

Barde flushed red. “Yes. You never know. You were the one who said we
were the first up here.”

“I said I didn’t know.”

“Just give me your tunic.” Loster looked down at his soiled and tattered
satin tunic. He sighed and slipped it off, passing it to Barde and shivering as
the cruel wind nipped at his naked chest. The older boy grabbed the hem and
wrapped it around his dirk before turning back to the rock face. With a grunt
of effort he rammed the blade into the groove up to the hilt and began to saw
it back and forth.

Nothing happened.

“It’s no use,” said Barde, and slipped the knife from its tunic cover
too quickly, slicing the blade into the ball of his thumb. “Gods,” he cursed. A
ruby droplet of blood fell from his hand and sparkled as it splashed onto the
ground. There was a loud crack like bone splitting and a great door opened in
the rock, swinging outwards and threatening to sweep the boys from the ledge.
Barde leapt back, knocking into his brother and sending them both tumbling over
the edge.

Loster’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of rough stone. Glancing to
his right he saw Barde doing likewise, terror etched on his features. A shadow
passed overhead as the great rock door passed above them, locking into position
with a deep boom. Dust showered down on the boys and then all was silence.

“Are you okay?” Barde had remembered his courage and resumed his role as
the older brother.

Loster smiled. “I’m fine. Did you drop your knife?”

Barde cursed again. His prized dirk was somewhere below, probably beyond
recovery. Loster hauled himself back up to the ledge and froze as Barde
scrambled up beside him, sucking his thumb to stem the flow of blood.

The door had revealed a long corridor angled down into the heart of the
mountain, and its passage had gouged away a thick layer of dirt and dust,
laying bare a quarter circle of mosaic underneath. The hundreds of tiny tiles
were chipped and faded but Loster could just about make out a dark figure, picked
out in once-black and was-red. The figure’s hands were raised towards a vibrant
sun in a sky of azure brilliance.

“What is it?” Barde asked, his dagger forgotten. “It doesn’t look like
the king of a great city.”

“That’s because it isn’t.” Loster looked at Barde. “I’m not sure, but I
think that’s…Him.”

“Who? Who’s ‘Him?’” Barde knelt and wiped more dust from the floor,
revealing a line of strange runic script. Barde sat back on his haunches and
frowned. Loster swallowed hard and instinctively moved behind his brother.
Barde looked over his shoulder at him. “Well, what does it say?” he asked.

“It’s Old Verian, I think,” Loster recognised the strange shapes from
his studies with Aifayne, “but…”

“But what?”

Loster raised his hand to his mouth, absently chewing his grimy
thumbnail. “Well that word.” He pointed at a jagged symbol. “I’m not
supposed to say it out loud.”

“What do you mean?"

“I mean the writing, the man in the picture. It’s Him.”

Barde blinked. “Not the Black God?”

Loster gasped. “Ssssh. What if He hears?” This adventure had been his
idea but he was beginning to like it less and less. None of the stories that
haunted his slumber were more chilling than the horror tales of the Unnamed.
Loster had overheard His true name once but knew it was not to be uttered
aloud. Not unless you were one of his thralls from the Temple Deep or were
spinning the cruellest of curses.

“Don’t be a baby. He can’t hear us."

“He’s always listening. That’s what gods do.” Loster could feel the cold
without his tunic and had lost his appetite for this particular excursion. “We
should get back. Mother will be worried.” He knelt and pulled on his soiled and
torn shirt.

Barde knotted his brow. “Well what about my dirk?” he asked, cocking his
head.

“What about it?”

“I’m not going home without it.” Barde folded his arms across his chest.

“But it went down there," Loster said. He gestured at the emptiness
behind him. “We have to go down there to get it anyway."

“Not if there’s a better one.” Barde jerked a thumb at the portal into the
mountain.

To Loster it looked like the maw of some fell beast waiting to swallow
the two small boys. “We don’t know what’s in there…”

“Afraid are we? That makes sense at your age.” Loster scowled. The
challenging voice in his head was strangely silent on this matter. Instead it
seemed that his older brother had taken its place.

“I’m not afraid, I just…” he paused. “It’s that.” He pointed at
the mosaic. “We don’t know what it means.”

“So let’s find out,” said Barde.

They stepped through the doorway into the Widowpeak, though both took
care to walk around the dark figure on the floor.